


memories of an old friend

by postalcoast



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: & tbh i can't blame him, M/M, Magic Realism, Spoilers, but john's got a crush on the strange man here, honestly leave it to john marston to have a crush on death, listen...idk either, pre-rdr2 canon, that's so goth cowboy of him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 22:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30096138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postalcoast/pseuds/postalcoast
Summary: The man definitely isn’t one John recognizes, and him being this far out, John wasn’t expecting to run into anyone he knew. Although, the man stands out in the dusty atmosphere of the saloon: well-dressed, black suit and a tall black hat, with a neatly-combed mustache.
Relationships: John Marston/The Strange Man (unrequited)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	memories of an old friend

**Author's Note:**

> *takes place during that year that john leaves the gang
> 
> i didnt originally intend for this to turn into an unrequited crush thing but it happened. also this kinda contradicts the strange man's appearance in rdr1 bc john has like no idea who he is, but idk.

The first time John meets him (although it is an interaction he will come to forget, replacing the man’s face with another’s, certain parts of the conversation getting distorted and blurry, left behind in the far depths of his memory) is in a saloon somewhere, far away from Dutch van der Linde and his gang. 

Far away from Abigail Roberts and the baby he isn’t sure is his own yet. 

Perhaps the distance will grant him something, a little time to think, a little time to get his head on straight. Perhaps it’s time that he’s wasting, but only time can tell the answer. 

The man’s sitting next to him at the bar, and it’s strange because John could’ve sworn the seat next to him was empty only moments before. He’d turned his head to look at something, some altercation between a couple of men a few tables away that had settled down on its own, and when John had turned his head back, there the man was. 

Probably would’ve startled him if he was a little more sober. 

“I was hoping you’d be here,” the man says without looking at John, instead peering down at his clasped hands that rest on top of the bar. 

At first, John thinks the man is addressing someone else, and glances back beside him to see no one, then glances back to the man, straightening himself to peer over to the other side. There are some men sitting at the end of the bar but not within earshot. 

“You talkin’ to me, friend?” 

The man definitely isn’t one John recognizes, and him being this far out, John wasn’t expecting to run into anyone he knew. Although, the man stands out in the dusty atmosphere of the saloon: well-dressed, black suit and a tall black hat, with a neatly-combed mustache. 

John just chalks it up to being the man’s mistake, thinking John is someone else. Although, there is something chilling about him, but not obvious enough that John can rightly point out what it is. 

The man looks up at him, and his eyes look tired yet piercing. The way he fixes his gaze on John, unfaltering and unwavering, could probably set off his instinct to fight or run, but John doesn’t move an inch. Call it bravery, or stubbornness, or just plain foolishness.

“Yes, John.”

John only grows more confused with the hint of familiarity in the stranger’s voice, the way he speaks to him like an old friend. Like he knows John as well as Dutch knows him, or maybe Hosea, or maybe Arthur. 

John leans forward a bit more, his arms braced out on the top of the bar to support the movement, and the man watches John peer at him. Doesn’t even turn his head, just watches John out of the corner of his eye like a curious animal might. Careful and patient. 

There’s a coldness that comes from the man - the man that John certainly doesn’t recognize, even with a better look at him, and John isn’t sure if the chill is physical or just his imagination. 

Cold, like he’s just been dropped in the middle of a snowstorm, the wind full of ice. A kind of cold that sinks down into your bones and lingers. 

“I don’t think I know you, friend,” John says, and he hears the uncertainty in his own voice. A bit of hesitation, as if he’s second-guessing himself, even though the man’s face definitely isn’t familiar. 

“You don’t,” The man says smoothly, turning to face John head-on, now. And when he does, John swears the coldness in the air feels downright unbearable for a split second. “Not yet.”

A promise. 

“Who are you?” John watches as the man turns away briefly and lifts up a finger, signaling the bartender to give him a drink. 

John watches as the barkeep brings a glass of whiskey- John assumes, although it differs a bit in color from his own glass of whiskey, forgotten and abandoned - and sets it down in front of the man without a word. John’s been here long enough to know the saloon serves more than cheap whiskey, and yet something tells him this man isn’t just some regular. 

John watches as the man takes a sip from his glass, slow as if he’s dragging the action out, making John await the answer. 

“My name’s not important,” The man says finally, without meeting John’s gaze.

“Then, what do you want?”

“Same thing everyone wants,” the man lets his eyes drift to John’s face once more, and there’s something about his stare that makes John feel exposed. Like he’s being studied, or carefully examined. As if the man’s searching for something in John’s eyes that’s beyond the surface, perhaps something hidden deeply enough that John isn’t fully aware of himself, just yet.

This look is held only for the briefest of moments, and then the man shrugs. A casual, fluid movement. “Same thing  _ you _ want.”

“Yeah?” John prompts, his voice a bit hoarse. “And what’s that?” 

“A bit of  _ guidance _ ,” Emphasis is put on the word ‘guidance’ as if it’s obvious, as if it’s something John should know himself. Maybe he does. “Is that not what you’re trying to find out here, John? Some sort of answer?”

Defensiveness is a knee-jerk reaction to the statement, striking up in John like a white-hot flash of lightning. He thinks about knocking the man off the barstool where he sits, all smug and drinking his whiskey like he  _ knows _ John, knows him better than John knows himself. But something keeps him grounded, perhaps a smidge of his better judgment.

“Who are you?” He asks again, more demanding this time. “Dutch send you?” 

“No, John,” there’s a hint of amusement in the man’s voice, and he’s studying John again, eyes narrowed. “The only one who sent me here is you.”

John laughs at this, a short breathy chuckle, and he turns back to his own whiskey. “I don’t get you, friend.”

Even as he takes a drink, he can still feel the man’s eyes on him, lingering. As does the chill in the air, only slight in comparison to what it was.

He hears the man sigh beside him, and then he’s chuckling, too. “Most people don’t, I’m afraid.”

***

A few days later, John’s in the same saloon, sitting in the same seat, only this time he  _ sees _ the man walk in. Hands clasped behind his back, glancing around the room in a leisurely sort of way like he’s admiring his surroundings. 

There’s a bit of irony to it, seeing as the only thing of beauty in this dusty, plain saloon would be the liquor that’s served that helps you forget. A bit similar to how the man was looking at John the other day, almost admiringly-like, like there was a thing of beauty hidden deep within John that only the man, himself, could see. 

Like he was looking straight into John’s soul. If he still had one. 

John watches the man until their gazes meet across from the room, and the man smiles, a glimpse of teeth behind his mustache, something small yet familiar and warm. John’s half-expecting the room to freeze over like it did last time, yet the chill never comes. 

“Howdy, stranger,” John says when the man approaches him, and takes the seat beside him at the bar. “You lookin’ for me?”

“Perhaps,” the man says, the smile still lingering on his face. “Were  _ you _ looking for me?”

John feigns consideration, although the answer is probably clear. “Perhaps.” 

“Well, we’ve found each other. Isn’t fate a funny thing?” 

John smiles at that, and he glances away when he says, “Ain’t it just.”

***

A few days pass, then a few more. 

Then a few days turns over into a few weeks, passing on by like the wind, and John doesn’t see the stranger again. 

John visits the same saloon, waits, and half-expects the man to just show up beside him - materialize out of thin air like he seemed to do the first time they met. But, he doesn’t. 

After some time passes, John convinces himself that maybe he’d just imagined the whole thing, that the man had just been some sort of hallucination or an all-too-real dream. 

John convinces himself of this, and yet his eyes always dart towards the entrance of the saloon every so often without permission. 

***

Out in the middle of a clearing of stomped down grass, underneath his canvas tent or tucked away in a room he’d bought himself for the night - John dreams. 

Dreams more vivid and frequent than John’s used to. Ones that leave John as quickly as they appear, leaving John with a few glimpses of details to peace together unsuccessfully. 

The snow. Icicles melting in the winter sun. 

A cave, hollow and dark. A mountain, the cold air whipping around him. 

All of these details are fuzzy and unclear in comparison to one figure that occupies nearly every dream he has. One wearing a black suit and a top hat. 

***

“You seen the feller I was in here with a couple of weeks ago?” John asks the bartender when he’s pouring him a shot glass full of whiskey. “He had, uh - a mustache, and a top hat?”

The bartender’s brows furrow, and he hesitates like he isn’t quite sure who John’s talking about, then he shakes his head. “No, sorry.” 

***

When John does see him again, it’s in a different town. 

Outside of a different saloon. Or a general store. John isn’t entirely sure on the specifics. 

But, John follows him - he hitches his horse and follows behind the man until he’s within arms reach, and the man stops. Almost so abruptly that John nearly walks right into him. 

The man turns around, fixing John with a look that could be read as suspicious but expectant. John starts to think perhaps the man forgot who he was, but then -

“Marston, what a coincidence.” 

“Yeah, I’ll say,” John huffs out a chuckle, a small breath of a sound. “Thought I wouldn’t see you again.”

With that, the man’s gaze turns a bit curious, and John gets the feeling like he’s being studied again. “You say that as if you wanted to.”

The man’s smiling - a glimpse of a smirk or perhaps something genuine, and something about it twists its way into John’s stomach. A fluttering, flighty kind of feeling but not as guiltless. 

“Well, I - uh,” John backpedals, then stops himself - his words dying off around them before starting again. “Hadn’t seen you in a while.”

“Yes, I know,” The man says, matter-of-factly, because really, it is - and he’s still smiling. 

“Just, y’know - you stopped comin’ in at the saloon, I was wonderin’ why is all.”

“Well, it’s not because of yourself, John,” the man says smoothly, and he sounds like he’s being sincere. “if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“That ain’t what I -” John sighs, runs a hand over his face, frustrated with himself moreso than anything else. He glances around, perhaps searching for something else to say. The man watches him, that curious look in his eyes again.

When John can’t find the words, he spares the man another glance. “I’ll see you around.” And he turns back, heading towards his horse. 

He can feel the man’s eyes on him as he walks away, and something about it makes him feel warm - like the pleasant spring sun shining on his face. 

***

John sees him again, and again. In his dreams and in person. 

That warm feeling follows him now - a stark difference from the cold he’d felt so many towns ago.

***

The man sits by John’s campfire, out in the middle of a little spot of stomped down grass - seeming to materialize out of thin air in that way John will never figure out how he does. Maybe the devil treads lightly.

John’s not sure this man is the devil, but he knows he’s something - something more or something less, he ain’t quite figured it out. 

John startles when he sees him - he’d went inside his tent for something and came back out, and there he was, leaning over the fire with a stick, prodding at the logs to keep the fire aflame. 

John can’t help the smile that’s threatening to form on his features, and he walks back over to the fire, taking a seat across from the man, and regarding him with a tip of his head. “Hello, old friend.”

That night, they talk - just as they always do. Nothing and everything, words that make John think, prophecies and advice that seem almost too pretty for the likes of him.

The sun’s already set, and the man’s saying something about John speaking his mind but not riding a fast enough horse, or John running in on four legs only to be walking back on two. 

Some sort of old wisdom about his temper, or something just to do with a horse, something similar to a line Arthur would try feeding him every now and again. 

It makes John miss home. 

“You sound like Arthur,” John snorts, in the absence of anything else to say. He glances up from the can of peaches he’s eating from and sees the man looking at him, his eyes a strange shade against the reflection of the fire. “Sorry, he’s, uh - friend of mine.”

“I know him.”

“Really?” That makes John regard him a little more, his can of peaches nearly going forgotten completely. He can hear the surprise in his own voice, and that slight hint of caution that he can never quite shake. “You know Arthur?”

“As well as you do,” The man nods, stretches one of his legs out further like he’s making himself right at home. “he’s a good man - when he wants to be.”

“He is a good man,” John agrees, goes back to his peaches perhaps as a distraction. “he can be a grumpy son of a bitch sometimes, but he’s good - as good as men like us can be.”

***

“Who are you?” John asks him one afternoon, and it’s a question he feels like he’s asked the man a million times over. 

He plans on heading out tomorrow, try and track down the gang and see if they’ll pity him enough to take him back. Dutch always said he’d never leave him, and John’s hoping he’s still true to his word on that. 

He wonders briefly if he’ll see the man again, the man with no name - the man who might be Hell walking the Earth - and it almost scares John how much he hopes so. 

The man levels John with a cool, considering look before saying, “I think you know that by now, John.”

“I think you’re the devil,” John shrugs, trying to make it sound like a joke moreso than it is just curiosity. 

The man smiles, and his eyes are bright again. “You’re not far off.”


End file.
